


night is a room

by honey_wheeler



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Masturbation, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-10
Updated: 2012-05-10
Packaged: 2017-11-05 02:37:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/401523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_wheeler/pseuds/honey_wheeler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Robb,” she says after a moment. “Will you help me?”</p><p>“Help you?” he asks, bewildered, unsure of her meaning. She lifts her head and looks at him with pleading eyes and suddenly the meaning of her question hits him like a fist. His hand falls away from her shoulder to hover uncertainly in the air. “Sansa-”</p><p>“Will you? Please, Robb.” She’s giving him that look – that can-I-have-your-last-lemoncake look, that will-you-take-me-riding look, that Robb-you’re-my-favorite-brother look. The one he has no defense against.</p>
            </blockquote>





	night is a room

**Author's Note:**

> From the kinkmeme prompt: _Robb/Sansa - Robb finds Sansa masturbating, but she can't quite figure it out. He decides to help._
> 
> Set before or during GoT, this assumes they're aged up but still early-teenage.

He’d only meant to ask her if she wanted to go riding tomorrow. An innocent enough question, an innocent enough answer. It’s a bit later than he’d usually visit Sansa – the castle is retired, everyone in their chambers – but still her door had been unlatched. Robb only meant to go in and speak to her as he had a thousand times before, thinking to find her reading by the fire, or brushing her hair, perhaps, as she often is when he comes to talk to her of an evening. But she’s doing neither. She’s on her bed in her nightshift, lying back with cocked knees and closed eyes, hand moving between her thighs as she bites her lip in concentration. A thick ache settles low in Robb's gut at the sight of her, accompanied by the burn of shame he feels at seeing his sister this way, at not being able to look _away_ from his sister this way.

It’s not what Robb expected to see when he walked through the door, that much is certain.

Instinctively, he leans back against the heavy oak, slamming it shut behind him with a noise that has her gasping and bolting upright in bed with her knees to her chin, her shift immediately tugged down under her heels. The latch falls into place with a loud click, effectively preventing any speedy escape. Ideally, Robb would be able to melt back through the closed door like a phantom at this point. Reality is nothing so ideal.

“Um,” he stammers. “I. It wasn’t latched and. Um. Hello.” He cringes at his own inanity. Gods, he’s a man grown, or at least very nearly; how can he still behave as such a boy sometimes?

“Oh, _wonderful_ ,” she says acidly. Somehow he can’t help but laugh, even given the current delicate situation. Sansa shows tooth so infrequently, it’s always absurdly pleasing when she does, even if it is directed at him. The glare she shoots him at his laugh sobers him, though, reminds him that he’s in her bedchamber and he just walked in on her doing… _Gods_.

“I’m sorry, Sansa, really I am,” he says, his words practically tripping over themselves on his tongue. “I won’t… I’ll not tell anyone, I promise, really, I swear I won’t.” She nods, gives a sad little sigh. Her gaze skirts his, looking around him but not quite _at_ him. Then to his dismay, her eyes well until tears break and slip down her cheeks. He should leave now, he knows, but her eyes are swimming, wounded and glassy looking, and she’s sniffling, that sad Sansa sniffle that’s always torn him to pieces, and he finds that his feet seem stuck to the floor with molasses. “Sansa,” he says, wanting nothing more than to fix whatever’s wrong. She looks down at her feet, poking bare from beneath the hem of her shift. Dashes the tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand.

“It’s all right,” she says. “I know you won’t tell.”

“I won’t,” he repeats. “But Sansa, I just… Tell me what makes you weep.” Her eyes cut towards his and he thinks for one moment that she’s going to demand he leave, throw a pillow at him or something. To his surprise, her face turns wistful and confused and she turns towards him fully.

“Robb, you know about girls, don’t you? You've...you've _been_ with girls.”

The question throws him. It’s not at all what he expected. Not much, is what he doesn’t have the heart to tell her. There have been a few stolen kisses and fumbles with girls from the kitchen. A bit of innocent flirtation with Jeyne Poole that they both knew would go nowhere. And one disastrous trip to the brothel in the village at Theon’s behest that began with the girl’s tongue being pushed alarmingly into Robb's mouth and ended with him spending in his breeches when he’d done little more than touch her under her decidedly impractical smallclothes. Not the most shining recommendation on the subject of women. None of which could he ever say to his sister.

“A bit,” is all he says.

“Is it… That is, do you know if…” She breaks off and makes a frustrated sound.

“Sansa, it’s all right,” he says, daring a few steps away from the door, towards her bed. “Whatever it is, you can tell me.”

“I can’t do it,” she says all in a rush, fluttering her hands around her seated form as if that should clarify anything for him.

“Can’t do what?”

“This! What you… What I was doing when you… _This_.” Again her hands flutter about, this time gesturing more pointedly at her hips, and Robb’s cheeks flame hot enough to set fire to his hair.

“Oh,” Robb says. “ _Oh._ ”

“Yes, _oh_ ,” she mimics, and he elects to ignore her mocking tone, given the circumstances.

“What d’you mean, you can’t do it?”

“I mean…” Now _her_ cheeks are flaming and she won’t quite meet his eyes. “Oh gods, I mean I _can’t_. I keep trying and I feel like I get close and like there’s something around a corner I can’t quite get to, but then I just…I _can’t_ and I feel so achy and uncomfortable and confused and I don’t understand what I’m doing wrong or how to…to touch my… _Gods_ , I just _can’t_ , all right?”

“All right!” Robb says, holding his hands up in surrender against the onslaught of her words, torn between laughing and going right to her to pull her into his arms and make things better. Then she begins to cry again, and his feet are taking him to her bed without his permission, he’s crawling up onto the mattress to hug her to his side with one arm. “Sansa, sweetheart, don’t cry. It’s all right. You know I can’t bear it when you cry.” She laughs a bit, the sound of it more like a hiccup through her tears. She fits so easily beneath his chin, even as tall as she’s getting.

“Robb,” she says after a moment. “Will you help me?”

“Help you?” he asks, bewildered, unsure of her meaning. She lifts her head and looks at him with pleading eyes and suddenly the meaning of her question hits him like a fist. His hand falls away from her shoulder to hover uncertainly in the air. “Sansa-”

“Will you? Please, Robb.” She’s giving him that look – that can-I-have-your-last-lemoncake look, that will-you-take-me-riding look, that Robb-you’re-my-favorite-brother look. The one he has no defense against.

“Sansa,” he groans. “Do you even realize what you ask?”

“It’s just that you’re the only one I really trust, and this is so frustrating, Robb, I feel like I might go mad.” His face must look a sight, because she falters, begins to babble in that way she does when she’s nervous and insecure. The distress in her voice tears at him, wears away at his reservations like a stone’s edges being rounded smooth in a river’s current. “I understand if you don’t want to, I do, I thought to ask Theon, but-”

“No!” Robb says, the word exploding from him with a force that surprises him. The thought of Theon seeing her thus, maybe touching her… It sets Robb’s blood to an angry boil. “No, Sansa, Theon would… No. I’ll help you.” As he says it, the weight of what he’s promising bears heavy on the top of his head. If he had any sense, he’d let her go to Theon, send her off with his blessing. He’d not be so protective. But somewhere deep within his chest, he thinks maybe it’s possessiveness more than it is a brother’s protection, and he knows he has no sense at all, at least not where Sansa is concerned, which leaves Theon quite out of the question. The only trouble is that Robb can’t even imagine having trouble finding release. He more has trouble avoiding it, honestly.

“What,” he starts, then has to stop and clear his throat. “What do you usually do?” Even in the dim firelight, her face turns crimson.

“I… I just… Oh, Robb, you _know._ ” Robb laughs, the feel of it fizzy in his chest. It breaks apart the tension that had begun to curl behind his breastbone. Impulsively, he kisses Sansa’s forehead, the lavender-scented oil she uses sweet and light in his nose. 

“I know you’re a sheltered young lady, Sansa, but surely you’ve realized such a thing would be a bit different for me than for you.” 

“Shut up,” she grumps. He has a feeling that if she could find any graceful way to cross her arms in a huff while her knees are tucked up to her chest, she’d do it.

“All right,” he relents. “So telling is difficult. Show me.” Even as he says it, a klaxon goes off somewhere in the back of his brain, a strident alarum warning him to tread carefully. This is untested ground and somehow he knows it’s as fickle as quicksand. The same wariness shows in her eyes, and for a long moment, they just look at each other, aware of standing on the brink of something irrevocable. Then she nods, sliding down on to her back and carefully planting her feet on the mattress. With one more look at him, she squeezes her eyes shut and hesitantly pushes her hand down over her stomach to where the juncture of her thighs shows shadowy under her nightshift. She presses over the fabric, tentatively at first, then with more concentration, fabric rustling with the movement of her fingers.

Watching her hand move is too intense – it makes him feel things that are too complex, too unbidden and unwieldy – so he mostly watches her face. She’s lovely, so lovely. She always has been. Gently, Robb knuckles away the fine, soft strands of hair that cling sweat-damp to her temples. There’s such concentration on her face; it screws up her forehead and has her biting her lip, her teeth blunt-edged pearls against the pink of her lips. For a moment, he’s distracted by the sight, by the sudden, alarmingly fierce urge he has to replace her teeth with his own. Her body is so tense, he thinks she might snap like a bow strung too tight.

“Sansa,” he says, tracing the crease between her eyebrows with his fingertip. Her eyes pop open at his touch, the blue of them startling from so close, and he can tell that her hand has stopped moving. “Sweetheart, you look so grim. You’ve got to relax.”

“I can’t!” she cries, scowling at him before her face falls into dejected frustration. “Oh, this is useless.” She takes her hand away and balls it into a fist, dropping it onto the mattress beside her.

“Sansa,” Robb half laughs, half groans in commiseration. “Come on, now, just…” An idea sparks and he begins to tickle her, his fingers going unerringly to the spot on her ribs he knows makes her crumble.

“Robb!” she shrieks, laughing already, “No, Robb, Robb! Stop!” But she’s still laughing, the sound pealing out like a brass bell, she’s laughing and squirming and grabbing for his hands. When she’s breathless and curled towards him, he stops, slouching down to lie on his side next to her, head propped on his hand to look at her. His hand is still on her stomach and he realizes he’s moving it almost unconsciously in a slow, soothing arc, the cloth of her shift dragging between his fingertips and her skin.

“That’s better,” he grins. She grins back, but then it fades, leaving her face troubled as she searches his eyes for the answer to some unnamed question.

“Robb, what if I just can’t do it? What if I’m just rubbish at it? All of it, what if I’m…” She breaks off, averts her eyes. “Theon says some women are frigid. What if I’m…” Again her voice dries up, her eyes welling though she tries to blink the water away. She stares down at her bare feet as if they hold the answer to some riddle, her hand twisting in the loose fabric of her shift, turning left, right, then left again. Robb feels his heart break neatly into pieces. Her plaintive questions make something lurch in his chest, they jar loose a deep-hidden need to make the things that trouble her go away, like he did when they were children and he shouted at the thunderstorms that frightened her to chase them off and taught her how to swim in the deep pools of the godswood. 

“First of all,” he says. “Theon is a prick who doesn’t know the first thing about women.” She still looks down at her toes and he catches her chin in his hand, brings her eyes to his. “Complete prick,” he repeats. “Nothing about women. All right?” She gives him a wavering smile.

“All right.”

“Second, there’s nothing wrong with you. You just need to relax, pet, come on. This is supposed to feel good, isn’t it? You have to let it feel good.” She looks at him uncertainly. She’s always been so serious, this sister of his. Rarely playing with the rest of them, never horsing around. There were no wrestling matches with Sansa the way there were with Arya. She didn’t play at battle. She was always so focused on the future, on being proper and ladylike. Robb determines himself then to coax the lady right out of her, at least for the evening. “Don’t you want to feel good?” he asks, his voice taking on a low, unpolished edge that might disconcert him if he were focused on anything other than her at the moment. She must hear it as well, because she shivers.

“Yes,” she whispers.

“Try again,” he tells her, too huskily, but she nods, her hand creeping back to slide over her stomach and down, pressing against the juncture of her thighs again. “That’s it,” he encourages. “There’s a girl, there’s my girl.” Distantly, he realizes he’s speaking to her in the same tone he uses on his horse, a pretty and high-spirited chestnut filly. Somehow he doesn’t think Sansa would appreciate the comparison. But it seems to help her, regardless. She curls her face towards him, towards his voice, so he keeps up a steady stream, croons meaningless, comforting sounds at her, his hand moving over her belly and side in long, sweeping touches until she’s pliant, lying so trustingly against him it makes him light-headed.

She’s frowning again, her face screwing up in tense concentration. This time when she makes a frustrated sound and moves to drop her hand, he doesn’t think, just catches it and traps it between his hand and her body, only realizing what he’s done when he feels her skin warm and a bit damp beneath his fingers. Her own fingers stiffen under his, her breathing becomes shallow and erratic, and he wonders at what he’s doing, whether this ground beneath him is quicksand or bedrock.

“Don’t give up,” he hears himself say as if from another room, another keep, another country. “Let me help. Here, Sansa, let me.” He waits for her to relax again, for her to give her hand a tentative movement. Then, refusing to allow himself to think on how very wrong this must be, he guides her hand beneath his own, pressing her fingers under his, moving them in circles.

In some small part of his brain, he’s screaming at himself, wondering what he’s doing, how he can touch Sansa – his _sister_ – in such a way. His mind has never felt so jumbled, it seems, the desire to make this good for Sansa colliding with his own unruly need that grows worse with each increasing intimacy, both pushing uncomfortably against guilt and shame and an illicit sort of daring to make him feel like his head has been stirred up with a long-handled spoon. Then she gasps, her breath catching on some invisible hook as the tension drains from her face to be replaced with something needy and pliant, and Robb can’t be bothered with such petty concerns as his own conflicted emotions. They're cocooned here together in the dark of her room, the rest of the world far off and forgotten, and all that matters is how he can make her feel.

“Good,” he says, low and raspy. “Good girl.” She makes that catching sound again, her shoulders lifting off the bed and her toes pointing into the mattress as she folds herself up like a fan around his hand and hers, before stretching her feet out entirely, her thighs parting, no longer so protective of herself. Her trust in him is humbling. It’s frightening. It’s all entirely different than it was that one time in the brothel, where he felt nothing more than one in a line, an easy customer. That girl didn’t need him like Sansa does now. She didn’t trust herself completely to him. She didn’t know everything about him down to his toes, down to every fault and fear, and still love him best of all her brothers anyway.

Somewhere in his mind, Robb catalogs everything, files each scrap away neatly – the wave of lavender scent rising off her hair when she shifts, the distractingly lovely flush of her chest above the neck of her shift, the set of her mouth half-open to show white teeth and a tongue even pinker than her lips. The tremor of her fingers under his, the stretch and curl of her toes against his calf. He’s focused so intently that he doesn’t realize her shift has gotten worked up over her hips until it’s not fabric under the drag of his fingers where they’re slotted between hers, but skin, warm and soft and wet. If he were the slightest bit sensible, he would pull back, twitch the hem of her shift back down, keep his hand carefully atop hers to touch nothing else. Robb is clearly not even close to the slightest bit sensible.

“Robb,” she moans, her hand soon falling away under his to leave him touching her all over, no barrier between them at all. He wants to moan to match, wants to do all manner of things, but he bites it back. This isn’t for him, even if his cock is so hard he might be able to hammer nails with it. He focuses only on his hand, on the shift and catch of her breath that tells him where she needs him most, and how she needs him there. He learns her, works his hand over her and coaxes her up and up, until she tosses her head and whimpers, distressed, squirming away from his touch.

“I can’t…” she says, the tension back on her face. “I don’t…”

“I know, sweetheart, it’s all right,” he coos, every bit of gentleness and patience he possesses in his voice. He strokes across the velvety skin at the joint of her hips, over the almost-translucent down of hair on her belly and thighs, up the delicate ladder of her ribs. “I won’t let anything happen to you, Sansa, not to my sweet Sansa, my lovely girl.” He pets her, gently, giving the juncture of her thighs only the softest touches until she’s wordlessly asking for his fingers with the cant of her hips up to meet him. He finds her again and this time he doesn’t merely glide over her, but his fingers slip down and curve, curling into her, feeling her hot and slick around him even as he presses his thumb to the spot that makes her gasp and squirm. His hand cuffs her, touching her all over, and the heat of her could ignite wildfire, Robb's sure of it. _Gods_ , how he wants this, how he wants her to want it as well, so much so that he knows they’ve crossed a line that can’t ever be uncrossed, not truly, no matter how they might try.

“Please,” she gasps, her hand coming up to hold tight to his wrist, her spine arching as she moves sinuously against his hand, her hips finding the rhythm of his movements easily, instinctively. “Robb, please, _please_.”

“There’s a girl,” he murmurs, barely aware of the words rushing from him in a torrent. “There’s my good girl. Good girl, Sansa, gods, so good, you feel so good.” She arches off the bed, her mouth dropping open, a helpless, squeaky sound coming from the back of her throat. He shouldn’t say such things, he has to _stop_ , but he can’t, he wants only to keep touching her, wants to give voice to all in his head and his heart and his gut. It’s all he can do not to press his hard cock against her hip, rub against her the way she’s squirming up into his hand. “So hot and sweet and so very good, come on, sweetheart, come on, for me, come sweet for me.”

She moves more erratically now, seeking something she’s still not sure how to find. Both of her hands are clutching his wrist, as if she fears he might withdraw it – a patently ridiculous fear, given that he thinks such a thing might take the whole world ending to bring about. She rocks her hips, works against his hand in stuttering, jerky movements that he’s sure are beyond her notice. They’re nothing so elegant enough for Sansa, far too needy and shameless, and they saw at him, fraying the thread of his control to almost nothing. He’d never thought she would lose herself so in his presence. At his touch. Gods, he’s touching her, his fingers are inside her, this is bloody fucking madness. Then she’s tightening about his fingers, gods, she’s _pulsing_ around him, crying out his name with such urgency and need in her voice that he thinks this is a madness he can only welcome. He presses an open-mouthed kiss to her temple, tasting salt on her skin, feels her shake into bliss around his fingers. She points her toes with her release, her body stretched like a swan’s neck, lithe and beautiful, and he’s struck anew by how very lovely she is.

His hand gentles now, softens, touching her with the barest pressure, stroking through her tremors and easing her down until she lets go his wrist. Her last shiver when he withdraws his hand is almost enough to unman him entirely. She’s oblivious to his struggle, though, and curls into him, her face buried against his chest. He lets her hide, instinctively knowing she feels overwhelmed and exposed. He’s managed to suffer through an aching cock before, he’ll manage now.

Slowly, eventually, she turns her face from his chest to rest her cheek on his collarbone. Sets her hand over his heart and counts the heavy beats with taps of her fingertips. Easily, Robb wraps her up in his arms. Everything else this eve may have been quicksand but this is bedrock, and Sansa fits into his embrace with such comfortable familiarity that it’s as if she was born to it. This is something Robb knows and there’s not a bit of uncertainty to be found. They lie together and their breathing grows even and Robb thinks that he can’t regret any of it, no matter how wrong someone else might think it.

“Thank you,” she whispers after a long while, so softly he almost doesn’t hear it.

Any time at all, he’s tempted to say, but knows he can’t. He presses a kiss to the crown of her hair, squeezes her a little more tightly against his chest. “Next time it’ll be easier for you, I think. Now that you know what to expect and how to… How to touch yourself.” Amazingly, he feels himself flushing red at the words, even after everything. She frowns and he feels it in the knit of her brow on his jaw.

“Yes, but.”

“But?”

“When you… It wasn’t just the touching, or… I mean, next time-” She makes a frustrated sound. “Oh bother.”

“What is it, pet?”

“If I’m doing it to myself, you won’t be there to… To talk to me, to... To say the things you said.” Now her face is crimson all over again and she buries it against his chest once more. Robb swallows hard. That aching cock won't be going away any time soon.

“Did you like that?” he asks, knowing he shouldn’t ask, shouldn’t even want to know. Calling himself a hundred kinds of fool. She nods against his chest, still too embarrassed to look at him. “Well. Perhaps…”

She looks up. “Perhaps?”

“Perhaps I could help you a few more times. As long as you promise to never, ever go to Theon for such things.” It's the thinnest sliver of comfort, that Robb can dress this up as protection and not...whatever it is. Luckily, the thinnest sliver is all Robb needs to hold to, at the moment.

“I promise,” she says emphatically, giving him a shy smile. Then her smile brightens and turns mischievous, even downright happy. “I suppose I’m not frigid after all,” she says. The kiss she plants on his cheek is light, almost entirely chaste. But it lingers just a second overlong, and when she pulls away to cuddle against him, he feels the ghost of her lips tingling at the corner of his mouth, making him want to raise his fingers and touch the spot, press against it to trap the feeling there, an urge he tamps down. Satisfied, she slips into sleep almost immediately, snoring lightly, delicately, like a kitten. Against all reason, it makes Robb want his fingers inside her again. Her weight is perfect against him, everything about her is perfect. Gods, he thinks to himself. I am in a world of trouble. But it’s trouble that will last until another day, so he closes his eyes, breathes in the smell of her, and lets himself join her in sleep.


End file.
